The Days Are Getting Longer
by Esca Madeline
Summary: For Officer Williams, getting older was a terrifying experience. It was even harder considering that he was both a protector of Bullworth, and the father of Norton Williams.


Disclaimer: Bully is owned by Rockstar.

A/N: This is a story dedicated to Officer Williams, one of the police officers of Bullworth. Because really, like the Prefects, the officers just don't seem to get any love. I gave him the name Andre because we weren't given official first names, and if it's not to your taste, then I apologize.

**The Days Are Getting Longer**

_Fuck, I'm getting old._

It wasn't that Officer Andre Williams was bothered by this sudden epiphany. He didn't mean that the mockery of the other police officers about his graying hair was finally getting to him. On the contrary, the new shades of grey actually made him look quite dashing. But even if his hair was some other mundane, natural color, Andre wouldn't have given a damn because _looking _old wasn't what troubled him.

What really unnerved him, what really made him worried, was the fact that he _felt _old.

He hadn't realized this during the warmer months. With spring and summer often came a renewed sense of vitality—families would go on picnics, play in the parks, take walks along the beach, and do just about everything that had been denied to them during the colder, frostier seasons. Just _seeing _the young children run about and play had taken a good ten years off his mental age, so he hadn't been prepared when winter had taken Bullworth by storm.

It had been a _nightmare. _The cold had been relentless and fierce, bringing with it a stabbing chill that seeped its way into Andre's bones. He felt them ache, felt them freeze from the inside out, and for days on end his joints felt stiff, like a rusted machine. It grew to the point where Andre just wanted stay in bed, to curl up with his sheets and his electric blanket because he was weary and he was, quite frankly, fucking sick and tired of his bones feeling like they would shatter from the frigid temperature.

Whenever he was in one of those moods, his son Norton would always scold him for being so lazy, and Andre would throw his pillow at him, yelling at him to get his ass to school. Then he'd groan because then he'd have to get out of his nice, warm bed and suffer the dull ache of too-old bones, but he always got out anyway and got ready for work.

* * *

He only had three hours of sleep under his belt and his limbs were screaming in protest at the fatigue and cold weather, but the goddamn coffee machine gave him two thirds cream to one third coffee. _Iced _coffee, to make matters worse. Disgruntled, Andre tossed the cup on his way out of the break room, but his movements caused Officer Monson to look up from his jelly donut.

"Hey Williams! If you're throwing good money away, then why don't you throw some in my direction?"

Andre slammed the door and walked past Monson without even shooting him a glance. It wasn't worth it. Stepping into the glare of the parking lot, he spotted Officer Morrison crouched down doing something to the left rear wheel of his patrol car. "What the hell are you doing, fool?" he snapped, too tired to bother with politeness.

His voice must have come out rougher than intended, though, because Morrison flinched and immediately backed off. "Nothing! Nothing! I was just checking the tire pressure with this gizmo-ma-bob that my brother gave me." Morrison stood up and handed Andre a silver, pen-like device. "You just attach it to the nozzle and it tells you exactly how much p.s.i. you're traveling with. That's pounds per square inch. See, it's even got a clip on it. Fits right in your pocket."

"That's wonderful. I don't care. Get in the car so we can start our shift."

"…" Morrison blinked, before he looked away with a frown. "You don't have to be so pissy about it, Williams."

"It's one o'clock in the fucking morning, goddamn it," Andre snapped, shoving a jelly donut of apology into Morrison's hands before buckling up.

They took a right around the corner and headed south down towards the park in Old Bullworth Vale. Morrison shifted in his seat and swiveled the rear view mirror. He was using the clip from the tire pressure gauge to pick something out of his teeth. Satisfied with his handiwork, the strawberry blond set the mirror back the way it was, or the way he thought it was, since Andre, slightly exasperated, readjusted it again to his liking. Morrison glanced at the hot sheet and re-examined the surrounding license plates in a never-ending game of perpetrator bingo. Feeling fairly reckless, he attempted conversation with the ever stoic Andre Williams.

"Looks like it's gonna be sub-zero temperatures again, huh?"

"Mm-hmm."

They drove a few more blocks.

"How's your son? Last I saw him, he was hanging out with some punk kids in leather jackets. Is he okay?"

"He's a good boy. He'll be fine." Andre leaned on the gas and blew past the light at the intersection.

Morrison realized that the subject of Norton was a bit too personal, so he waited a few minutes and tried again. "You like Lady Gaga?"

Andre shrugged. Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, Lindsay What's-Her-Name, they were all the same to him.

"My sister got me a ticket the last time Lady Gaga was in New England. I could listen to _Alejandro _and _Bad Romance _all night. Boy, the way that woman sings…and her outfits! I'd love to have one of her costumes. Just one." Morrison grinned and shook his head remembering the amazement and adoration he had felt for the star. "Extraordinary woman."

"Concentrate on the patrol, Morrison."

They took the street towards the Vale in silence. Traffic was surprisingly light as they hit their usual spots—down past the retirement home, across the bridge and back up towards the beach. While they stopped in front of Shiny Bikes, Morrison looked down the street and observed a short, stocky boy and a tall, Asian girl sneaking off towards the lighthouse. Although it was dark, there was no mistaking the Bullworth insignia on the boy's hoodie and the girl's sweater.

"Hey, Williams—"

"I see them. Damn curfew-breakers."

Both police officers stepped out of the car and made their way to the beach. The girl was looking out in another direction, but the boy had quick eyes—he caught a glimpse of them before they even took a step onto the sands. He suddenly grabbed the girl's hand and, ignoring her surprised gasp, ran towards the lighthouse as if his head was on fire.

Andre caught a full view of them running down the beach. Without thinking, he threw himself over the railing, landing hard on the frozen sands with a pained grunt. _OW. I'll be feeling that in the morning. _Yelling at Morrison to hurry up, he ran after the two like a hound after two fawns. In that dizzying moment his feet barely seemed to touch the ground; his surroundings blurred so much that he completely lost sense of time and place. In a moment he found himself within inches of the young couple and, nerved with strength such as God gives only to the desperate, with one wild cry and flying leap, he vaulted straight into the boy's back.

"HEY!" The boy cried out as Andre's full weight collapsed onto his back, not only putting him in an uncomfortable position, but also making it very difficult for him to breathe. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the boy choked out, "Get—get off me, man! What the _fuck_?"

"Officer Williams!" The girl, her voice high and shrill and so very _familiar_, ran towards him and began to tug frantically at his sleeves, trying to get him off the struggling boy. "Officer Williams, stop it!"

Andre finally looked up, and his eyes meeting that of the bespectacled Asian girl's, and he glared at her for a minute before something in his mind finally clicked. "Wait a minute…Angie? Angie Ng?" Slowly, he got off the boy's back (all the while keeping a firm grip on the hooligan's arm) and gave the girl a flabbergasted stare. "Angie, what…what are you doing out here in this freezing weather? At this time of night? With this _punk_?"

"I'm right _here_, you know," the boy growled, still trying to pull out of Andre's vice-like grip. "I can clearly hear everything you're saying."

"Well?" Ignoring the increasingly irritated boy, Andre kept his gaze fixed on Angie, who was nervously chewing her nails. "Do you have an explanation, young lady? Or do I need to go and have a talk with your mother?"

"Oh god, NO!" Angie wailed and buried her face in her mittened hands. "Please, don't tell her! _Please_!"

_Oh no. _Andre tried not to look, but Angie's eyes suddenly turned big and watery and doe-like, and his heart suddenly felt tight inside his chest. _God, why do you hate me? Rochelle used to use the Doe-Eyes on me all the time…_

"Williams!" Huffing and puffing, Morrison finally made his way over to the three of them as he bent over, gasping for breath. "G-goddamn it, Williams, you're like a fucking devil when you run…"

Andre said nothing; the boy's angry curses and Angie's choked sobs were the only things on his mind right now. He winced as icy winds blew over the beach, sending shivers up his half-frozen spine.

His legs and knees were starting to ache. Maybe he had over exerted himself.

"Well, you got them anyway." Finally regaining his wind, Morrison straightened up and grinned. "So, should we take them back to the station and call the school? Ivanovich is on paperwork duty tonight, so we can just drop them off and get back to patrolling."

"Actually, I think I'll drop them off at the school."

"Huh?" Morrison, Angie, and the boy all stared at Andre at this sudden statement. Morrison blinked, before he asked tentatively, "Williams? You feeling okay? You didn't, um, bump your head when you crashed into the kid, did you?"

"No, I didn't." Keeping a firm grip on the boy's arm, Andre dragged him towards the patrol car, with a nervous-looking Angie and Morrison trailing behind. "We're dropping them off at the school. I know Angie here, and she's a good girl. These two…probably were studying too hard at the lighthouse or something, and lost track of time. Am I right, kids?"

"Um, y-yeah!" Angie laughed, her giggles forced and uncomfortable. "Y-yeah! We sort of, um, fell asleep during our studies, and when we woke up, we didn't know how late it was. We're sorry, aren't we Jimmy?"

The boy, Jimmy, scowled unpleasantly, before he mumbled, "I'm _sorry_, officer. Won't happen again."

Andre's eye twitched at the undertone of sarcasm in the boy's voice, but he let it go. Norton spoke in _that _manner all the time, and his son was still a good kid.

Morrison clearly wasn't at ease though. "I dunno, Williams," he murmured. "I don't think we should be breaking the rules like this…"

"Can it, Morrison," Andre said testily. "They're just kids. This is their first offense. Let it go."

"But…"

"_Drop it_."

"… fine." Shaking his head, Morrison headed back to the car with Angie in tow. Andre walked back with Jimmy, who was still growling something under his breath and throwing glares in his direction every twenty seconds.

"So," Andre said calmly as they stepped over the snowy sands, "tell me the truth, boy. What were you planning on doing with that sweet girl?"

"Sir, this isn't what you think."

_Sir? _

Andre threw a questioning glance at the boy in his grasp. Sir? Not even his own son called him "sir", and to hear it from this hoodlum's mouth was nothing less than astonishing. Not that the boy's attempts to suck up to him would change anything, though. "It doesn't matter what I think, kid," he said finally. "But if anybody did ask what I thought, I'd say that you were living life in the fast lane and your treads are wearing thin."

"Hey!"

"Now I normally don't care about the kind of company Angie keeps…except when I witness said company trying to get her into a dingy little lighthouse shack to do god-knows-what in bone-chilling weather." He narrowed his eyes. "There are children here. Retirees. Have some consideration for _them _if you two aren't going to have any for yourself."

Jimmy opened his mouth, more than likely with a retort of some kind. But then he stopped and stared at the ground, his angry look lessening, before he mumbled something so quietly that Andre had to strain to hear it. "Fine. I'm sorry, sir."

_Quieter than I wanted it to be, but it'll have to do. _Andre nodded his head, before he turned his attention towards the patrol car, where Officer Morrison was offering a shivering Angie his thermos of hot cocoa. "Still, you two are just kids. Crazy hormones, and what not. You like her, don't you boy?"

"Yeah…I kinda do." Jimmy smirked. "She's cute."

"Yeah, she is. Morrison on the other hand, not so much. I take care of my sweet 70 year old mother and my bullheaded seventeen-year-old son down at New Coventry. Those two are the only ones who ever try to get fresh with me."

That momentarily broke the tension and they both chuckled.

"So, officer…" Jimmy paused, before he looked up. "Are you going to arrest us?"

"No, kid. This is just a warning. But please—in the future, don't be so stupid, will you? And if you're going to be stupid anyway, at least don't do it in front of me."

"Gotcha, old man."

At Jimmy's words, Andre felt the chill seep into his bones again, and his good mood plummeted by thirty percent.

* * *

Even before it had turned cold, Andre had started taking naps.

He usually napped on rainy days. He would stay in bed or lie on the sofa, whichever was in napping distance, and he would lie there and close his eyes and hear the soft muted murmur of rain, pattering against the window with the dull roar of the traffic outside. He, his son, and his elderly mother lived deep in New Coventry, and though Andre liked the bustle of life, sometimes he hated it. No doubt about it, he was definitely getting old—_old_—OLD.

Ugh. Soon he'd be shouting at brats to get off his lawn and be holding up lines in supermarkets.

But for now, he just napped with the rain outside. Sometimes he had fuzzy, distant dreams of his fellow officers—Monson, Ivanovich, and Morrison—and he wondered if they also felt as tired as he did. Sometimes he tried to remember his late wife's face, tried to grasp onto a memory that just seemed too far away—and he would always end up jerking himself awake with a horrified expression on his face, because no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't remember what she looked like.

The number of times he had stumbled around, looking for his old wedding photos was almost sad enough to be comical. Almost.

The memories were fading though, the voices of his acquaintances and loved ones as muted as the rain he'd hear outside and sometimes, he would _fight_ to remember because he told himself wasn't _that_ old.

Even though he didn't remember his beautiful Rochelle's face, when he looked at Norton sometimes he felt a jolt in his stomach, because he knew that his son had his wife's eyes.

…

Or maybe he was deluding himself, and was just going senile.

* * *

Norton was a Greaser.

The first time Andre heard it, he didn't believe it. In fact, he thought Officer Monson had been joking because Dale Monson was a self-serving corrupt jackass who, for some godforsaken reason, got off on seeing him unhappy.

Sure, Norton had _friends _who were Greasers. Norton had _friends _who were a bit on the unsavory side. But Norton wasn't a Greaser _himself_. He wasn't a chain smoker. He didn't resent people simply because they were rich. His boy was an intelligent, hardworking kid who would rise above all that petty shit because Andre knew he taught the boy to be better than that.

But then the changes started. Norton started slicking his hair back every morning. He started wearing thick leather jackets and began tooling around with bicycles more than ever before. He started shirking some of his schoolwork, started getting into fights, and when Norton started coming home with black eyes and bloodied lips, Andre found it necessary to intervene.

"What the hell are you doing, boy?" Andre yelled, grabbing his son by the shoulders and shaking him wildly. "Why are you acting like those—those _hoodlums_? What are you trying to do? You trying to throw away everything I provided for you? You trying to throw away any chance you've got to succeed?"

"Man, you don't _get it_!" Norton shoved his father's arms away, his eyes narrowed and bloodshot. "You don't know what it's like in that school! You don't know how those Preppies look _down _on us! Those fucked up rich pricks, thinking they own the place. They think we live in _trailers_, dad. They think we don't even have running water or plumbing! And then they have the nerve to just _buy _their way into good grades and good jobs and call _us_ stupid and pathetic, while we have to work hard to put food on the table? How can anyone be so self-absorbed and ignorant? They have no right! They have no fucking _right_, pops!"

The words rang true; Andre knew this. Everything Norton said was right, and this fact alone made Andre feel weak and defeated. But the way his son was handling the truth was nothing more than a path to self-destruction, and he wouldn't let this happen to his son, not when Norton's older brother had risen above the same problem, not when there was a better way out.

Looking hard at Norton's eyes—Rochelle's eyes—Andre swallowed thickly and shook his head. "You can't do this," he said quietly. "I can't let you throw your talents away, just because of your grease monkey friends—"

"Don't you call them that!" Norton yelled. "They're more than just my friends. They're my brothers—they're fucking family to me!"

"And what am I?" Andre's voice was cracking; he was almost crying now. "What about me, your brother, your grandmother? Do you think we want to see you lower yourself to become some _mechanic_? You think I wanna end up locking away my own son? What do you want, Norton? What the fuck are you trying to _prove_?"

"Just shut up!" Norton spun away, his eyes—Rochelle's eyes—narrowed and angry and filling with tears. "Just shut up and _die_, old man! You don't get it; you're nothing more than part of the problem! Fucking corrupted _fuzz_!"

His son then ran into his room, slamming the door shut and locking it just as the first drops of rain fell from the darkening sky.

A storm raged for three days. During those three days, Andre slept for seventeen hours, all the while clutching his wedding picture to his chest.

* * *

_The days are getting longer. Not much else, though._

It felt like that, anyway. Andre would go about on his daily patrol, stare at his watch, and walk around for what felt like hours before he stared at his watch again, and realized that only twenty minutes had gone by. _1:00_ would drag into _1:03_ and then _1:04_ and then _1:04 with 15 seconds_, and time would just continue to drag on and bled together in one big blur until Andre had forgotten what seconds, minutes, hours and days felt like. Sometimes it seemed to stop entirely, and he would stare at his watch for what seemed like ___seconds, minutes, hours,__ days____, _and the stupid watch stayed stuck at at _12:29____._

And then Officer Morrison would be speaking from someplace faraway, even though the distance from the sidewalk to his patrol car was only a few feet—but it felt like leagues. Andre always drove away after that, pulling up at a corner and shutting his eyes for a while, only for a little while, hoping that the day would just _end _so that he could go home.

So maybe he _was _feeling more tired. Troubling, yes. But he could still run like the track star he used to be ("When was that, old man?" Norton used to tease, when they were still on speaking terms. "A bazillion years ago? Ha!"), and he was still as strong as a man of thirty, despite the fact that his hair was graying out into tarnished steel.

"It's like you're rusting," Officer Monson would joke cruelly. "Maybe we need to oil you up, Williams."

"Like a used car?" Andre would reply, his voice calm and careful, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists.

"Yeah! Ain't that funny, boys? Hell, maybe we can even trade him in like I did to my old Toyota! God knows Williams ain't getting any younger, right? Ahahaha!"

Officer Ivanovich and some of the younger officers would laugh, albeit nervously, until Officer Morrison came in and broke the tension by asking if it was considered metro or gay for men to paint their nails with clear, colorless nail polish.

Rust.

_Rust._

Like the rust on old cars or forgotten bicycles.

Ignoring the bitter, hot rage that threatened to consume him, Andre checked his watch.

It was now _12:30_.

* * *

_Those stupid, fucking kids._

Andre roared as he dove into the pile of bodies, ripping light blue sweaters away from dark leather jackets, knocking smartly combed and thickly greased heads together as he tore Preppies away from Greasers.

Norton, that stupid, bullheaded boy! Where was he?

He had to find him. So far, he and Morrison were the only ones at the scene of "The Rumble", and so far, he and Morrison were the only ones who were trying to restore any sort of order to the streets of New Coventry. But finding his stupid, stupid son was on the top of his priority list, because he had to hide him before the other cops arrived.

He was not going to lose his son like this, he was not going to lose his baby boy, the only one of his two sons who had Rochelle's eyes—

—by god, his back fucking hurt. Andre gasped and inadvertently let go of the Prep he had been holding, Justin Whatever-His-Name-Was. Leaning against the graphitized wall, he gritted his teeth and swore, cursing the day he had grown so weak and old, cursing his son for making him worry, cursing the day the shit hit the fan. He shut his eyes and tried to breathe, tried to ignore the fact that stupid teenage boys were trying to pummel each other's heads in just a few feet away.

_As long as Norton is okay, as long as he's okay, I don't really give a damn anymore._

"I ALWAYS get my man! …that didn't sound gay, did it?"

Oh no.

His eyes ripping open, Andre looked up…

…and very nearly screamed.

Shoving Norton against the car, with his legs spread shamefully, was Officer Monson. To Andre's disgust, his fellow officer who looked positively delighted at the fact that his very first arrestee upon entering New Coventry was Norton Williams himself.

Norton was struggling, trying to get away, but Monson would have none of it, and slammed the Greaser's head hard against the hood of the car. "Give it up, brat," Monson snapped. "Save it for the tanning your daddy's gonna give you when I bring you in. Boy, I can just imagine the _shame _on his face when he sees you in cuffs. He always spoke so highly of you too…but I just he just ain't a very good judge of character, huh?"

"F-fuck you!" Norton spat, attempting and failing to kick at Monson's legs. "You leave my dad out of this!"

The officer laughed cruelly. "Kid, I've been waiting years for Williams to slip up. You just made things easy for me, that's all." He began patting Norton down, laughing even more when the young Greaser's eyes widened.

"…hey…HEY! Don't touch me you fucking asshole!"

Andre saw red. He couldn't believe this—he wouldn't—how _dare _he—

His hands flew to his gun, his mind no longer caring of the consequences. But before he could even take his weapon out of its holster, a short, stocky boy came flying out of nowhere with a green flask in hand. In less than a second, there was a loud _CRACK_, and suddenly a large cloud of green enveloped the entire area.

Andre gagged; the foul stench that hit his nostrils was indescribable. It seemed like some unholy mixture of feces, piss, rotten eggs, garbage, smelly gym socks, and a whole list of other horrid smelling concoctions that Andre couldn't place. He heard both Norton and Monson screaming at the odor, but Norton managed to gather his wits in time to flee. Monson was too stunned to comprehend moving _away _from the green gas, and Andre made himself scarce as he saw his son running for safety.

_Thank god. Thank god he got away._

He suddenly spotted a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. Turning around, he saw the boy (_Jimmy_, Andre told himself, _his name is Jimmy_) running off towards an alley, apparently in pursuit of a Greaser on a yellow bike. Just before he disappeared, Andre saw Jimmy turn in his direction, the kid flashing him a crooked smile and a thumbs-up.

Later on, when Monson returned to the station, he yelled and ranted and screamed that Norton had been at the rumble, that Norton had been part of the brawl, that Norton should have been arrested. But neither Morrison nor Ivanovich had seen Norton at the brawl, and Andre wasn't telling.

It was now _12:30_.

_Fucking watch must be broken._

* * *

His thoughts no longer seemed linear. His thoughts were like quicksilver, flashing before his eyes so quickly that he hardly had a handle on it before his next thought plagued his mind.

But they all made him feel fear. Yes, fear kept him lying in his bed, eyes wide, as he felt the weight of his life and the burdens of his aging body beckon him down. But he held on. He told himself that it was because his family still needed him, because _Norton _still needed him, Norton the _fool_, who would never smile now or get better friends because now that he was a goddamned _Greaser_ he was way too serious. But what a lie. Andre was a good liar. He just didn't want to admit he was growing weaker.

He didn't want to lose his identity. Andre Williams. How old was that identity? How many times had he changed his skin, from Son to Cadet to Rookie to Officer to Honey to Daddy to Pops to Old Man to Sir and now, he was sharing, wasn't he? Sharing between his job and his son, while age ate away at his strength and bones, while his son fell into a bad crowd?

And his job. What was it now? He couldn't tell, what with Monson brutalizing every suspect he got his hands on, treating the juveniles like they were murderers and rapists when in fact Monson _himself_ was interested in sodomy and BDSM and other disgusting activities like that. And Ivanovich wasn't much better. He was also a bit too rough with suspects and everyone knew—knew, but couldn't prove—that he was taking hush money from wealthy businessmen. Like William Harrington.

The slow-witted Morrison seemed to be the only _good _officer out of the bunch, and this fact made Andre very, _very _depressed.

What was the point? Why was he still doing this?

…

Not yet. He couldn't stop being Officer Williams yet.

He still had things to do.

* * *

Mihailovich was a strange man from Eastern Europe, a man who had graying black hair in a flat-top, and a bit of stubble on his face. He was someone who wore a striped mustard-yellow jacket and trousers, a faded reddish-pink tie, and a pair of black leather loafers.

And he was someone who had no green card.

Andre didn't ask how he got to this country without a visa or a green card—he wasn't in charge of immigration, goddamn it—and Mihailovich was a good man, if somewhat rude to people he really didn't know. Andre had befriended him by complete accident, when Mihailovich's car had broken down on the side of the road, and Andre had stopped to help him fix his engine. To thank him, Mihailovich had invited him for drinks, which led to Andre inviting him for drinks a few weeks later, which led to Mihailovich inviting him for lunch, which led to a weird friendship that actually helped to keep Andre's mind off of the burdens and pains he felt during the winter months.

As Lionel Galloway once told him, "Nothing dulls the pain like Scotch, my friend! Scotch, a beautiful woman on your lap, and a good friend!"

…

Well, two out of three weren't bad.

But it was during the beginning of spring when Mihailovich told him. Andre had just taken a sip of his Scotch when the Eastern European had started sobbing out of nowhere, becoming nearly hysterical until Andre helped him out of the bar and calmed the weeping man down.

And then Mihailovich had told him everything. Told him about his unfortunate immigration status, told him about how he had papers falsified so he could enter the country, and told him how his connections had suddenly disappeared, leaving him alone and with no way to protect himself should someone ask him for legal documentation of his stay in America.

"Please," Mihailovich pleaded, practically on his knees as he gripped at Andre's hands. "I need your help, friend! Please…_please_…help me…"

There was a bad feeling in his gut, and oddly enough, his joints started to ache. But Andre felt pity for his foreign friend, and even though it went against all of his better judgment, he pulled all of the strings he had in order to get Mihailovich the legal documentation he needed.

_And I complained of Norton having bad friends? I guess the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree._

Never once did it occur to him that people were following him. Never once did it occur to him that there were people who hated him enough to try to expose him as a corrupt man, and until he spotted that Hopkins boy with his camera from the corner of his eye, snapping a picture _just as Mihailovich pressed the money into his hand_, Andre never once thought that what he was doing could be considered wrong.

_Stupid senile weak aging graying old man! _

He didn't say anything, though. As Mihailovich walked back into the In-And-Out Motel, clutching the papers to his chest with tears of joy in his eyes, Andre remained quiet until the motel owner disappeared behind closed doors.

Then, he walked calmly over to Jimmy's hiding place, and gave the boy a tired smile. "Good evening, Hopkins."

"…hey." Strangely enough, Jimmy didn't move, or even try to run away. He simply stayed in the shadows, just staring at Andre with an unfathomable look on his face. "Were you _busy_, sir?"

"You might say that." Andre could hear something close to contempt in Jimmy's voice. He couldn't blame the boy, though. It _would _look bad to an outsider, after all. "How's Angie?"

"I dunno. I broke up with her a while back."

Andre's fists clenched.

"I hear Norton's dating her now. They seem really happy."

"Ah." His fingers loosened, and for some reason, he was able to smile. "I see. Well, I always did think they were good for each other, you know—"

"What were you doing with Mihailovich?"

So the boy was going to be blunt and straightforward. Andre respected that, he really did. "I had a favor to do for a friend."

"A favor. Is that what they're calling it these days?" Jimmy's narrowed eyes remained riveted on Andre's face. His fingers curled around the camera in his hands, tightening until his knuckles were white. "I thought you were different. I thought that assmuncher Monson was just fucking around. I told him you weren't like that, and yet—" The boy stopped, his body shaking with anger.

Andre could have laughed—Jimmy looked just as angry as he did the night they had met, if not more so.

"Monson," the aging officer repeated quietly, a bitter smile pushing its way past his lips. "Monson, huh? I should have known. He's such a prick, I swear…"

"But he was right!" Jimmy yelled. "You were here! Making a deal with a fucking axe murderer!"

"Axe murderer?" At this, Andre really did laugh. "My god! Don't tell me you believe those messed up rumors! Mihailovich isn't an axe murderer, son."

"Oh yeah? Then what's with all those creepy noises that come out of his motel?"

"Um…" A blush suddenly crept past Andre's cheeks, which was thankfully hidden by his dark pigmentation. "Hopkins, Mihailovich doesn't really run a _normal _hotel. You see, sometimes when a man and a woman have a strong, carnal desire for one another, they go to a motel to mate like rabbits, and sometimes weird and indescribable objects are used to help them sate their disgusting sexual appetites—"

"EW! Okay, I get it!" His face blanched and pallid, Jimmy backed away, covering his ears. "Goddamn it, man! I don't need any visuals!"

"Well, you did require an explanation," Andre replied innocently, although the smirk that pushed past his lips betrayed his true feelings. "Can't have people thinking my friend is an axe murderer, now can I?"

"No, but a perverted motel owner isn't really any better."

"To each his own."

Jimmy made a face, before he gave Andre a questioning stare. "So…Officer Williams. What were you really doing with that creep? I mean, if it wasn't a bribe…"

"I'm afraid I can't say, son. It's a private matter, and I only involved myself because Mihailovich begged me to." Andre paused. "However…I suppose if I saw a fellow officer of mine do what I did, I wouldn't be very happy with him either."

"I see."

Andre could see the indecision on Jimmy's face, and he shook his head. "Listen up, boy. I'm going to make this easy for you. I'm not going to ask you to give me the camera. What you do with your pictures is your own choice."

"What?" Jimmy stared at Andre as if the policeman had grown ten heads. "You serious?"

"Dead serious, son. If you do decide to turn them in, I wouldn't blame you. I won't hold it against you either. But if you decide to delete them or whatever…well, I'd be mighty grateful to you. But either way, it's your choice. Turn me in or let me loose…it's all the same to me, now."

"What kind of fucked up choice is that?" Jimmy demanded, looking completely unhappy with the whole prospect. "That's not a choice at all!"

"Yes it is. A choice is a choice. Whether it's good or bad doesn't take away from the fact that it is _your _decision." Clapping a hand against Jimmy's shoulder, Andre walked back to his patrol car. "Good night, son."

"G-good night…sir."

Andre slipped into the driver's seat and buckled up. As he drove away, however, he looked into the rearview mirror saw Jimmy's face in the glass, his freckled face wrought with indecision, and Andre suddenly felt a hundred years older.

_I'm no better than Mihailovich and Monson, guilt-tripping the boy like that._

He hoped that Jimmy would turn in the pictures. Getting fired would be a welcome relief. But the next day came and passed, as did the day after that, and the day after that.

There was no mention of the pictures, and Officer Monson looked positively furious.

* * *

Norton had noticed his changes, even though Andre guessed he knew for a while—or maybe not. Time had abandoned him, hadn't it? But Norton, who was now speaking to him again, seemed almost…_shy._ This boy, who was almost seven feet tall and had muscles that Andre wished he could reclaim, was _shy_ about asking if his daddy was fine. But Andre had heard that question one too many times from Morrison during too cold winter nights at the station, and he told Norton that if he asked _one more time_ he would nail his balls to the goddamn doorframe.

He hadn't asked again. Ever.

Except now. And the questions blurred together.

_You okay?_

_You're not eating._

_Dad, you've been sleeping for two days. _

_Dad?_

_Fine-_

_I think-_

_Dad-_

And then everything was nice, and Andre became grounded again in the world, and the pull on his shoulders lessened as he indulged with his son. He was fine, yes, of course, just peachy and awesome and _dandy_. Marvellous.

_Why yes, let's have some waffles._

* * *

Pain was unpleasant as usual, and though Andre had been happily estranged from it as the weather warmed up, he still felt its presence in his bones, in his muscles, in his mind, lingering and threatening to return once winter reclaimed the blossoming town that was Bullworth.

He was not going to let a stupid thing like _age _define who he was. He was not going to let being _old _influence and corrupt him anymore. Fuck aching joints and brittle bones; he wanted to remain _Andre_, remain individual and be awesome and laugh and go out and drink beer and be bored shitless because nothing good was on the television nowadays, and sometimes hang out with his son because he was really only happy when Norton was around.

He didn't want to be cold anymore. He had enough of winters.

_Yeah, I'm getting old. And I don't give a fuck._

* * *

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